And then, that's it. Once you can carry yourself away from your mother's tit, you walk blindly seeking 'it', whatever 'it' is - they don't tell you that bit, they just send you off in search of it. And then when you get lost, and your life is about as great as falling backwards in half rotted compost, they expect you to pick yourself up and carry on. As if this 'it' you'll stumble upon will be the carrot to hang your crown on. So you toil and shape your little world around you, buy insurance and a burial plot to surround you, and then you find out in your final moments before death, that the 'it' has been and gone, it's something you once had and now will end up left.
wishing that as a baby you raided the kitchen cabinet and chugged some disinfectant.